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82                             LETTERS   FROM   THE

de me regarder. Je ne suis ni jeune nl jolie; M.
le Due d'Orleans, auroit-il si mauvais gout ? "

This made the creatures laugh, and some said,
" Pas si mal—pas si mal." Never did beauty long
to be admired more than I did to be thought
ugly. At last Mrs- Knowles, from the inn, came
to my assistance and vouched for my being other-
wise than what they thought. But I never got
rid of my terror till I found myself safely on
board.

I had a dreadful passage, but the storm of the
elements alarmed me less than the torrent of
human violence which I had just escaped.—Adieu,
for I am sleepy and can write no more.

MR. SWINBURNE TO  HIS WIFE*

London, May xzth, 1790.

The town is filling with French emigrants,
and I have already met several of our acquain-
tance. I was induced to dine at Greenwich the
other day with the Duchess de Biron, Madame de
Cambise and Miss Wilkes, who is the great pro-
tectress of all the expatriees. It was a charming